Monthly Review;' and James Ralph, gibbeted by Pope in the Dunciad '—

"Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous-answer him, ye owls."But I do not remember that there is any inscription to their memory. A slab, with his name and dates of birth and death, and his coat of arms, marks the burial-place of Ugo Foscolo. A large tomb bears the name, and an inscription records the worth and talents, of Philip Loutherbourg, the painter. Sharpe, the historical engraver, is another of the men of fame who," after life's fitful fever," here repose.

The tomb which has rendered Chiswick churchyard a memorable place is that under which lies the body of William Hogarth. It is a large and noticeable structure; and was erected shortly after his death by a subscription among his friends and admirers. In addition to the name and the usual information, it has engraven on it the well known lines written by Garrick. Johnson also wrote an elegy for it, but Garrick's was preferred; neither is at all worthy of the memory of the painter.

Hogarth was scarcely appreciated in his own day. The flippant patronizing manner in which Walpole treated him was perhaps a favourable instance of the way in which the connoisseurs of art were accustomed to regard him. It is not to be wondered at. He was not a drawing-room painter. He did not work for the amusement of dilettanti lords and fine ladies. The flimsy conventionalities they adored he despised and ridiculed. But due honour has been done to his memory. His fame has steadily risen, and men of

loftly intellect have been the foremost to do homage to his inimitable genius. Hogarth, who in his own age was only considered as a sort of superior caricaturist, is now acknowledged to be the greatest moral painter this country ever produced. Charles Lamb I think it is who says "Hogarth's paintings are books." Whoever said it spoke the literal truth. They are books which may be not merely once read, but referred to again and again for instruction as well as delight. Every part of them teems with meaning. Under the most sportive passage there lies a serious purpose. Yet are they also true pictures. He fully under stood that painting has a language of its own: that what speaks to the heart by means of visual representation must be different from that which addresses it by means of language. And what he would say he says clearly. The perfect perspicuity of his style is one of the most remarkable of his many excellencies. There wants no Dr. Trusler to moralize his pictures. They tell their own tale, and declare their own moral with such distinctness, that an exposition is almost an insult to the intelligence of the most uninstructed observer.

But that which places Hogarth apart from and above almost all other painters of familiar life is his great creative power. He sought subjects neither from history nor poetry: he neither copied nor followed writer or painter; his pictures all have a history or a poem of their own. His invention is unbounded, and his ability was equal to depict what his mind conceived. Walpole said he was no painter," because he did not in composition and execution imitate the Dutch or some other "school." But his composition and colour, and

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every other technical quality, were of just that kind which served best to embody his purpose-the purpose of a masculine simplicity of intention and healthiness of intellect.

Hogarth for many years spent his summers in Chiswick; in a house which had before been, it is believed, the residence of his father-in-law, Sir James Thornhill. The house still remains. It stands in a lane not far from the church: any child in Chiswick will direct the stranger to "Hogarth's house." It is a rather plain, oldfashioned, red-brick building; not such probably as would in these days satisfy a popular painter, but yet one that must, when he lived in it—surrounded as it was by goodly trees, having moderate-sized snug rooms, commanding a charming view of the river, and not, as now, neighboured by the mean ill-favoured houses that have sprung up opposite to it, offending alike the eye and nostril-have been a very likeable summer retreat. The house itself has not probably been much altered, but the garden has lost many of its trees. An outbuilding called "Hogarth's painting-room" is carefully preserved. Hogarth lived here till his death; and his widow continued to reside in it till she followed him. It has since had an occupant whose residence has done further honour to it. In 1814 the Rev. H. F. Cary, the translator of Dante, was appointed to the curacy of Chiswick, when he shortly after purchased this house of Hogarth's; and he continued to reside in it, with a short interval, till 1826, when he removed to his official residence at the British Museum.

CHAPTER XXV.

HAMMERSMITH AND PUTNEY.

THEY have an odd tradition at Hammersmith respecting the name of the place. Once upon a time, it is said, there lived here a giant and his wife or sister, who worked, like Birmingham nailors, both of them at the anvil. The lady's forge was on one side of the river, the gentleman's on the other. From some unexplained cause, they had but one hammer between them. When, therefore, he wanted this very necessary instrument, he used to shout "Hammer!" and the strong-armed dame incontinently flung it across the water to him; when she needed it, she used to cry "Smith,' and he very politely tossed it back again.

The

Hammersmith is a large and populous place. It contains some ten thousand inhabitants, and the houses stretch irregularly over a wide area. main street is a part of the great western road. We need only look at that part which lies by the river side. In Hammersmith Terrace, which we first arrive at, resided Arthur Murphy, the dramatic author, and friend of Dr. Johnson. Here also lived and died Philip Loutherbourg, one of the most distinguished painters of the last century—a sort of precursor to Stanfield. Late in life Loutherbourg was rather crotchety; he became a convert to Brothers the prophet; and among other

strange whimsies he set up for a prophet and curer of diseases on his own account. For a failure in some of his prophecies or promises, his house in Hammersmith Terrace was beset by the mob, who broke his windows and did other mischief.

was,

Hammersmith Mall is a fine walk of good houses, and is planted with stately old elms;-it is a great pity that it is not kept in better order. Were it united with Chiswick Mall, they would together form one of the finest terraces by the Thames. But Hammersmith has lost its former popularity with people of fashionable habits. It I believe, in one of the houses on or by the Mall that Dr. Radcliffe had a summer residence. He intended to erect a hospital on the grounds, and had commenced the building, when death arrested his design. Sir Samuel Morland, of mechanical note, lived here. Another of the residents by the river side at Hammersmith was Catherine, the widow of Charles II.

There is a little inn, the Dove, near the end of the Mall, which might easily be past unnoticed by the stranger. Yet it deserves a word of recognition. Its old title "the Dove Coffee-house" tells that it belonged to a time when coffee was a less domestic beverage than at present. The Dove was once a genteel suburban inn, whither wits as well as citizens resorted in the season to sip their coffee, enjoy the sweet prospect of the river, and talk over the literature and the politics of the day. It is said to have been a frequent resort of Thomson's— who, by the way, once lived in Hammersmith; it is even asserted, but on very doubtful authority, that Thomson wrote a portion of the 'Seasons' in the Dove. Here the late Duke of Sussex had a room